Lions and Lambs
by Gamemakers
Summary: For decades, Coriolanus Snow ruled Panem with an iron fist. No one, not even the most powerful Capitol citizens, would dare to defy him. Three times citizens of the Capitol gave in to Snow's wishes rather than pay the price for their defiance, and one time that one didn't.
1. Plutarch

"Heavensbee, wonderful to see you again. Please, do sit down." President Snow gestured towards the chair across from his desk, and Plutarch obediently sat.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Plutarch had been dreading this moment since Snow's summons had arrived that morning. When low-ranking Gamemakers were called for individual appointments with the president, they rarely emerged alive.

"Yes, yes I did," Snow leaned in closer to him, and Plutarch could smell the sickening scent of blood underneath the rosy perfume. "Your creative talents have come to my attention, Heavensbee. I believe we have the golden opportunity to greatly increase the security of the Capitol together." He looked at Plutarch expectantly.

Plutarch did not see the connection between his work designing muttations and Capitol security, but he knew it would be dangerous to say no to Snow. Instead, he smiled and said, "Of course, I'd do anything for the Capitol."

Snow appeared to be pleased with his response. "Good, very good. Let's get started." He pulled a sheet of paper out from one of the desk drawers. "Here are my basic specifications. We can meet again in a week to begin fine-tuning your designs. I look forward to seeing your work." Plutarch could tell he was being dismissed. He stood and bowed before walking to the door. Just as he began to open the door, Snow spoke again, this time in a much lower tone. "And remember, Heavensbee, anything that happens within this room is never to be shared with anyone. Otherwise there will be … consequences." Snow's cold voice made perfectly clear exactly what those consequences would be.

Plutarch repressed a shudder. "Good day, sir." He hurried through the cold, clinical hallways that surrounded the president's offices. Plutarch had known that Snow liked the color white, but he had not expected to find the interior of the presidential mansion painted entirely white, with only the occasional vase of roses breaking the pattern. When he was safely in his car and had told his Avox chauffeur to drive him home, Plutarch finally dared to read the list of demands.

_Visibly Intimidating, Physically Strong, Useful in a Variety of Environments, Programmable_. What could Snow possibly mean by the last one? All mutts were programmable to a certain extent, in that all of them had an intended purpose that was coded into their DNA by Capitol scientists. He would have to ask the president for more specific instructions at their next meeting. Before then, he needed to at least come up with a basic concept of what these creatures should look like and their physical abilities. Plutarch did not want to be yet another promising Gamemaker that paid the ultimate price for disappointing Snow.

He sat at his drawing board for hours over the next week, brainstorming hundreds of different possible creatures. Again and again, he was drawn to reptilian predators for inspiration. Plutarch pored over ancient books depicting animals now long extinct, and he integrated features from the crocodiles, lizards, and serpents he found there. Though his designs were truly terrifying, he still felt that they were missing something.

His second meeting with the president was, if anything, more nerve-wracking than the last. Plutarch shifted nervously in his seat while Snow looked over a few of his sketches.

"That one." Plutarch jumped at the sound of Snow's voice, but after he composed himself, he glanced down to see which of his sketches the president was pointing towards. He had to smile when he saw that Snow was referencing his personal favorite, a dark gray, bipedal version of a crocodile. "This is certainly a lovely specimen," Snow said as he leaned back in his chair, "but I do believe you can do better."

"What would you like to see, sir?"

"Something more personal, more threatening. I want individuals who confront this beast to immediately identify it with me."

Plutarch nodded. "I'm sure I can find a way to do that. I also had a question. On your list of requirements, you asked for the muttation to be programmable. What exactly did you mean by that?"

Snow smiled, an expression so cold Plutarch could almost feel the blood freezing in his veins. "These muttations, Heavensbee, will serve a very special purpose. They must be able to hunt down a specific individual, stopping at nothing to make sure that this person does not escape from them alive."

Plutarch was too stunned to speak for a moment. He knew he should have seen something like this coming, but the idea of crafting special assassins for the president's personal use was just too much. "I – I'll see what I can do," he replied.

"Very good." This time, Snow rose and escorted him to the door. "You will have a final rendering next week for my approval, yes?" Though President Snow phrased it as a question, Plutarch knew it was truly an order. He nodded and left for his car.

That evening, Plutarch again searched through his reptile books, desperate to find the missing piece that would provide the personal touch Snow was looking for. He created dozens of sketches, adding curved, talon-like claws, or the president's piercing blue eyes to his mutts, but he still could not find the combination to create the perfect monster.

In his dreams, he ran from the mutts of his own creation. Plutarch felt long, jagged claws slice into his skin and drag him to the ground. Just before the creature clamped its jaws around his neck, Plutarch could make out the scent of flowers. He awoke with his heart racing, still terrified but also inspired by what he had just dreamt.

He rushed to his desk and began to sketch. The mutt he made kept the reptilian form of the earlier drawings, but he added several details. Plutarch replaced the dark gray skin and eyes with white scales and gleaming red eyes reminiscent of the presidential mansion, and added a note to the side of his work. _Smells of roses_. He sat back and examined his work. These lizard muttations would be the perfect weapon.

Plutarch smiled. The president would be pleased.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks for reading, and extra thanks to ArtemisCarolineSnow for reviewing. I do hope you'll leave a review – I'd love to know what you think of the story so far. Thanks again!

~finnicko-loves-anniec


	2. Effie

She stood alone on the doorstep, taking a deep, calming breath to sooth her nerves before she rang the doorbell. Effie waited patiently for Twelve's lone surviving victor to come to the door, but no one answered. She rang the doorbell again, and though she could hear the chime, the house remained still. Effie waved to the Peacekeeper that was accompanying her on her visit to the Victors' Village who had stayed at the end of the walkway. "He must not be home," she explained. "Do you have any idea where he could be?"

"I haven't seen him around before, ma'am. He's probably in there, maybe just sleeping." The young Peacekeeper replied. "Can your business wait for an hour or two? He'll probably be up by then."

Effie glanced at her bright pink wristwatch before answering, "No, we're behind schedule as is. There's no time to lose. I can't be late for my first Reaping!"

"I'll go around to the back and knock then." The Peacekeeper, a gangly redheaded boy who couldn't be much older than Reaping age, scurried to the back of the house. She heard a snort. "Umm, ma'am, I think you'll want to see this for yourself."

Effie struggled to walk in the patchy grass in her high heels, but she gingerly made her way into Haymitch Abernathy's backyard. There, she was confronted with the sight of an overweight, unkempt man a few years older than her sleeping soundly on a picnic table, a bottle of liquor clutched tightly in his right hand. She took a few steps away from the man, not sure whether she was retreating more from the sight or the stench.

The Peacekeeper, Darius, laughed. "I'd like you to meet Haymitch Abernathy, District Twelve's only surviving victor."

Effie could barely contain her disappointment. _This _was the man who was supposed to help her bring back victors? A drunk that couldn't even make it inside before he passed out? Fantastic. How would she ever get out of this pit of a district?

Darius circled the sleeping victor, slipping something out of Haymitch's pocket before grabbing a stick and poking him with it. Haymitch immediately sprang up, lurching towards Darius as though attacking with the Peacekeeper with an invisible knife before falling flat on his face. "What do you think you're doing here?" he growled from his spot on the ground.

"Somebody wanted to meet you." Darius gestured towards Effie, who was now even more horrified at the prospect of working with this man.

She did her best to hide her doubts. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Abernathy, I'm Effie Trinket. I'm the new escort for District Twelve." She offered her hand for him to shake.

Haymitch grabbed her hand and used it to help pull himself back up onto his feet. "Oh, great, you'll be the one who helps kill my kids this year."

She gasped, scandalized. _That _was not the response she'd been expecting. "Mr. Abernathy! I will do nothing of the sort!" She paused, waiting for an apology, but none was forthcoming. "My job is to help your tributes live. Since you and I are a team now, we need to work together to give Twelve its best chance of a victor."

"Call it what you want, sweetheart, but they're still going to die, and you're still going to be the one that put them in the Arena in the first place." Haymitch glanced into his bottle, then disappointed tossed it at a bush when he noticed it was empty. Effie was too shocked to call him out on his lack of manners. "You got anything else?"

Effie would not allow this man to dismiss her so easily. "The Reaping is in just over an hour. Since you seem to have no interest in having an actual discussion with me, I suggest you use your time wisely and take a bath." With that, she span on her heel and wobbled as confidently as possible back to the main street.

"Sorry, sweetheart, but there'll be plenty of time to be clean during the Games. I think I'm going to take all my chances to be dirty while I still can," Haymitch called after her. Effie huffed about manners under her breath as the Peacekeeper escorted her back to the Justice Building.

Effie sat in the Justice Building, eagerly awaiting the beginning of the Reaping. She pulled out her compact mirror for the dozenth time, checking to make sure her teal wig was perfectly placed and her false eyelashes were still curled. After all, she was going to be televised for all of Panem to see; she had to look her best. Finally satisfied with her appearance, she put her mirror away.

With no distractions, her mind returned to Haymitch's words. Did he really think that she was going to help murder these children? After all, she was only the Capitol's envoy to the district. If she refused someone else would come to choose a slip from the Reaping Ball. It wasn't as though Effie was going to pull a gun on the tributes. All she would do was pick a piece of paper and then help the chosen boy and girl as much as she could. Nothing she could do would change the fact that two children from District Twelve would go into the Arena in a few days' time. Effie had no power to actually stop the Games from occurring; only President Snow had that kind of authority.

Finally, District Twelve's mayor came and nodded to her. It was time to go on. Effie smiled and readjusted her wig one last time before stepping onto the makeshift stage. She felt a rush of butterflies in her stomach as she waved to the crowd and began the speech. Looking over the children waiting to see whether or not they would be Reaped made Effie feel sick to her stomach. Luckily, she had practiced this speech so many times that she could probably recite it in her sleep, and she was able to finish her address without any noticeable pauses. She had been warned that the president's consequences for being anything less than enthusiastic during the Reaping could be … severe, at the very least.

"Ladies first!" Effie walked over to the girls' Reaping Ball with her sweetest smile pasted onto her face. She looked into the ball for a long moment, fighting the urge to vomit when she remembered the little twelve year olds in the audience. Effie quickly grabbed the topmost slip of paper, not reading it until she was back at the microphone. She unfolded the paper and read the name. "Laurel Hartskin!" she announced in the most excited tone she could muster.

A tall, dark-haired girl so slender that Effie could make out the individual bones in her arms and legs came out from the middle of the crowd. Effie could feel her hand trembling as she looked upon the face of her first victim. Haymitch was right. This girl was going to die, and no matter which tribute did the actual killing, Effie was her murderer.

Effie smiled at the girl beamingly. "Wonderful! Now for the boys!"

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks for reading – I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! This will be a four chapter story, and will involve four different Capitol citizens in the '3 Times X, and One Time They Didn't' format. In this case, an alternate title could be "Three Times the Capitol Citizens Obeyed, and One Time One Didn't." I expect to have the others up sometime soon. If you have a minute, reviews are much appreciated. Until next time,

~finnicko-loves-anniec


	3. Caesar

_Brrring! …. Brrring! _

Groaning, he reached blindly to the nightstand, fumbling through his extensive collection of pricey knickknacks before finding the phone. "Caesar Flickerman speaking."

The voice at the other end was soft and low, but Caesar knew the power behind the words it spoke.

"Of course, sir, whatever you wish." Before he could say anything else, the president hung up.

Caesar took a moment to calm his nerves before climbing out of bed. Even after a lifetime of interviewing the most interesting and sought-after people on the planet, any contact with President Snow still made him feel jittery. He finger brushed his lilac hair in front of a mirror before calling for his personal servant. "Aurelius, come get my clothes ready for the day. I have quite the special interview tonight."

By the time he had finished his shower and dressed, a note from the president's mansion had arrived that explained the exact conversation that would occur that evening. Despite years of injections to maintain his youthful appearance, Caesar could feel his brow furrowing deeper and deeper as he read the list. Apparently, this interview would be unlike any he had ever done.

He brushed off his worries. Caesar Flickerman, the most popular television personality in Panem, could ace any interview. This one would certainly be a challenge, but that had never stopped him before. Caesar flashed himself his most winning smile in the mirror on his way out the door. Time to show why he was the world's best.

* * *

><p>Could this really be the boy he'd met before the 74th Games? The instant Peeta had walked shakily onto the stage, Caesar had begun to doubt his ability to complete this interview. Far from the kind, strong boy that he had introduced to the nation, Peeta Mellark was now a frail man with eyes that belonged on someone much older.<p>

Though Mellark's appearance gave him pause, decades of experience kept the smile plastered on his face from faltering. "Peeta!" he started, rising from his comfortable white interview chair to shake the other man's hand. Instead of returning the gesture, Peeta backed away a step, eyes widening; the boy's pupils dilated, and Caesar could see that his breath had quickened.

He gave Peeta what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Please, come sit," he said. Peeta sat gingerly on the white chair, keeping most of his weight on the very front of the seat as though ready to pounce at any threat.

For the first time in his career, Caesar was speechless. He wanted to get up and scream to the audience about the mistreatment of this young man, to tell them the horrors the note from President Snow had contained. All of it was _wrong_, but he could do nothing without risking his own life. Like the coward he was, Caesar sat down and allowed the opportunity to pass.

He turned to Peeta. "So, I am glad that you have decided to stay in the Capitol! It's lovely this time of year, don't you think?"

The old Peeta would have agreed, maybe even added a little joke. This was not that Peeta. He stared at Caesar before blinking several times rapidly. Only after several long seconds of silence did he agree.

"Tell me, Peeta, what do you think of these rebels? Is there a message you would like to send to them after they kidnapped and brainwashed your wife?" Caesar had never felt more ashamed of himself than he did as he spoke those words. They were a complete lie; he knew it, and everybody else in this theater knew it, but he said them anyway.

Something changed in Peeta's expression. "They are wrong. They'll lose. There are no other possibilities." He paused for a long moment before continuing, "I just hope that nobody else gets killed before it's over." The shining in his eyes told Caesar, and the nation, that the boy was being perfectly honest.

Caesar felt taken aback. What had they done to him? Snow's letter had informed him of the basics, that Peeta had been tortured for several weeks, but how could even the most gifted interrogator cause this change?

"Of course they are!" he heard himself say, as if he was watching himself through his television at home. "That's some fantastic insight. You've always been such a kind man."

For the rest of the interview, Caesar chatted with Peeta about nothing of importance. They acted as though the man had been enjoying the wonderful parties and attractions the Capitol had to offer instead of being locked in a cell. Caesar found himself enjoying the interview. Despite what the Capitol's chief interrogators had done to him, Peeta had largely retained his excellent conversation skills.

Finally, it was time to end the interview. Caesar was now relaxed enough to deviate from the script. "It's been a pleasure chatting with you again, but I think our time is up. Any messages for Katniss, the rebels, or even viewers at home before we wrap up?" Even before Peeta began to answer, Caesar knew he had made a mistake. Peeta's shaking became more obvious, and his blue eyes took on a steely edge.

"And you ... in Thirteen ... dead by morning!"

Bedlam erupted. Peacekeepers grabbed Peeta and roughly dragged him from his chair. All the lights shut off, and the hundreds of audience members struggled to leave the theater in the dark, cursing and screaming as they tripped over one another.

Eventually, the sounds ceased, and Caesar was left alone in the studio. He stayed in his plush, comfortable chair for over an hour, thinking about what he had done. He tried to calm his shaking hands as he thought of the lies he had just told the public. Caesar tried to think of some explanation, some reason why he was right to so willingly go along with Snow's wishes, but he could find none. He was weak. That was all he would ever be. Like the weakling he was, he made an excuse. All he had wanted to do was save his own skin, his own career.

Perhaps this situation was still salvageable. Caesar smoothed his jacket and stood. Even though the audiece had long since left, he bowed before leaving the interview area, just as he always had. He strode confidently off the stage, so familiar with the studio that he could navigate around the wires and equipment even in the pitch blackness that surrounded him. Caesar would not be able to avoid Snow now. It was time to ask forgiveness.

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it - I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter, to be honest. Feedback is very much appreciated. Thanks to ArtemisCarolineSnow, Sda209, turtledoves, and SydneyLouWho for reviewing! See you again soon for the final chapter, starring Cinna!

Edit 7/22/2014: Thank you to turtledoves for pointing out the errors in the earlier version of this chapter.

~finnicko-loves-anniec


	4. Cinna

**A/N:** This was written for the What Goes Around Comes Around Contest on Caesar's Palace.

* * *

><p>"I always channel my emotions into my work; that way, I don't hurt anyone but myself." Cinna allowed his words to linger in the air. The deeper meaning was lost on the great majority of the young art students before him. Most dutifully scribbled his words into their notepads, not pausing to think about what their guest lecturer might be hinting at. When it came time for exams, these students would excel, but they would never become truly successful artists. Those who thought about, listened to, truly <em>felt <em>his words could someday become great.

What came from the heart, after all, created the best art. His skill at capturing his emotions in cloth had allowed him to rise through the ranks of Capitol society, quickly gaining the most coveted position a stylist could attain.

He ended his speech simply. "Thank you for having me." The students gave their guest speaker a polite round of applause, and Cinna left the auditorium of his alma mater in high spirits. He felt his speech had been well received, and he hoped that he'd had some impact on the future stylists.

A man in a crisp, black suit stood a few steps outside the building. "Cinna, pleased to meet you," he said, extending his hand.

Cinna shook the man's hand and smiled. "And you as well. Are you here on business?" Cinna's trained eye noticed that the purple in the man's hair was half a shade lighter than that of his tie. No self-respecting art student or professor would allow an error like that. This man must be a visitor.

"Yes, unfortunately. Care to take a ride?" A sleek, black car pulled up as he spoke. Though the man's voice was kind, Cinna could sense the power behind his words. Anything from this man was to be taken as an order.

He stepped into the car, his mind whirring into action. Where was he being taken? Who was this man? Was he in danger?

"I imagine you have a few questions," said the man.

Cinna nodded, wary of this stranger. Nobody in the Capitol gained their power through kindness.

"First, let me tell you a little about myself. I am one of the president's assistants. You may call me Hadrian. At the moment, we are driving towards the president's mansion, where you will meet with President Snow. I assume that covers most of your questions?"

"Why does the president wish to speak with me?" he asked, looking directly into Hadrian's eyes.

The president's assistant smiled, an expression so cold that it seemed to freeze the air around him. "I'm sure you'll discover that very soon."

The car stilled in front of the Presidential Mansion. Cinna tried to hide the way his hands shook as he opened the car door and stepped out.

"Please, follow me," said Hadrian.

Cinna meekly followed the man through long, winding corridors. Avoxes scurried away when they saw Hadrian. Soon, they stopped outside an enormous mahogany door covered in intricate carvings.

Hadrian opened the door a crack. A blast of cool air and the overwhelming scent of roses assaulted Cinna's senses. "He's waiting for you. I'll see you again after you're finished."

Cinna stepped inside. Behind a massive white desk sat President Snow, who was staring at him intently.

"Do make yourself comfortable," said the president, gesturing towards the chair across from him.

Cinna lowered himself into the chair. To stop his voice from shaking, he swallowed before he spoke. "You asked to speak with me?"

"Yes, yes I did. I thought the two of us could discuss some of the arrangements for the upcoming Quarter Quell." Snow leaned slightly towards him, and Cinna fought the urge to cower in fear. "You cannot know it, but there have been … difficulties in the districts since the last Games." He paused, and Cinna shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "But I believe you can help to calm the flames that your Girl on Fire has started."

"What would you like me to do?" Cinna asked.

Snow smiled, revealing both his perfectly white teeth and the blood that pooled in the spaces between them. "Your designs fueled the fire. This time, you must do what you can to put them out. Have you already started work on Katniss Everdeen's interview dress?"

He nodded. "Yes, though I'm not much past the preliminary stages. I –"

"There is no need for you to continue. The citizens of the Capitol have already selected her gown." Snow slipped a photograph out of the piles of papers on his desk. "Isn't it lovely?"

Cinna immediately recognized his own design. He nodded.

"You will dress Miss Everdeen in this dress for her interview. Do you understand why?"

"It shows she is now a part of the Capitol," Cinna replied. "Instead of inciting the people into further rebellion, her allegiance to our way of life squashes their hopes. With no hope, there is no rebellion."

President Snow studied him for a long moment. "You are as clever as they say," he said, "though that is not what I was asking. Do you understand what lies in store for you should you dress Miss Everdeen in anything else?"

"I can imagine."

"Good. Have a pleasant afternoon." With that, Cinna knew he had been dismissed.

* * *

><p>Cinna examined the dress one last time, smoothing a small wrinkle and snipping a single loose thread. Finally, it was perfect. It should be. Every spare second in the last few weeks had been spent working on this gown.<p>

Once, an instructor of his had told him that every true piece of art held something of its creator. Though he had dismissed it at the time as an old man's romantic notion, Cinna now felt that he could truly understand those words. Like him, this gown shielded its defiance with a thin mask of submission. His mask would burn away as the dress did, fully exposing his true self to the world for the first time.

"Ready to work?" he asked himself as much as the woman in front of him.

Katniss nodded, still unsure. He could see the question in her eyes even before she spoke. "How do you do it?"

He looked down at the dress again, searching for some way to explain his actions to this woman. He desperately wanted to tell her everything, but if Snow realized the secrets the dress held before Katniss went onstage, all would be lost. As he hunted for an explanation, only the day at the art school came to mind. He smiled softly, hoping she would understand in a way the students had not. "I always channel my emotions into my work; that way, I don't hurt anyone but myself."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Thanks for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it. Special thanks to Roxibily, Guest, turtledoves, and ArtemisCarolineSnow for reviewing! As always, feedback is much appreciated J. Thanks again for reading!

~finnicko-loves-anniec


End file.
